


I Object!

by tenscupcake



Category: Doctor Who RPF
Genre: F/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:39:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenscupcake/pseuds/tenscupcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David seizes his final chance to tell Billie how he really feels: her wedding day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Object!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adams1422](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adams1422/gifts).



> This is my first RPF. It's pure unrealistic fluff inspired by many back-and-forth D/B feels and real-life angst. Obviously, this is an AU.

“I object!” he shouts, leaping to his feet.

The church is utterly silent, save for the diminishing echoes of his words, filtering through the guests and to the front of the room. The first head to turn is Billie’s. Suits and dresses rustle softly and the wood of the pews creaks as every member of the audience turns to glare at whatever drunken hooligan had shouted. No one ever expects there to be a valid ‘reason these two should not be joined in holy matrimony.’ But here he is, unable to forever hold his peace.

His seat is too far from the front and he can’t see her eyes. He doesn’t know what words could possibly follow his impassioned objection; he’d made it sound like a court of law rather than a place of worship. His legs are shaking and he fears any moment they’ll be sending someone over to carry him out of the church, preventing any further outbursts, but he speaks again.

“I have a reason,” he says with reduced volume, his voice trembling. The thudding palpitations of his heart begin to frighten him as they rattle his chest even through layers of clothes, overheated blood racing through his system until his head is clouded, vision blurring. The room spins, every figure in the room melds to an indistinguishable mass, save for one beautiful woman in a white gown. She remains clear through the haze as his brain struggles to formulate his reason through dizziness and terror, but he knows all pairs of eyes in the room are still fixed on the strange, red velvet-clad Scottish bloke who can’t seem to speak proper English.

“Well, what is it?” the minister asks, aggravated and impatient to hear whatever impediment to the ceremony is trapped on his tongue. He wipes the sweat pouring from his hands on his trousers before gripping the back of the pew in front of him, supporting himself and shifting his feet in anxiety. He’s fighting the urge to break from her gaze, knowing he’ll never be able to do this if he’s staring at his polished shoes.

“I – I need to – speak with the bride-to-be,” he splutters out, and it takes every muscle in his body to stop tears from pooling in his eyes, to stop his legs from crumpling under his weight and taking him to the cold ground. He stays strong for her. “It’s important.”

“I am sorry sir, I cannot allow it! Whatever you have to say must be said here!” The weary, raspy voice of the minister is firm, resolute; it won’t tolerate exceptions to his rules. He swallows hard and his lungs fill with air for the first time in what might have been thirty seconds. Even regaining oxygen his breaths are erratic, on the verge of breaking into dry sobs as he considers what he’s about to do. He worries the entire church can hear him shakily hyperventilating – no one moves a finger, no one breathes so much as a whispered word, and his heartbeat is pounding in his ears.

Slowly, he shuffles to his left, and his feet trip over shoes and purses several times as he still refuses to break eye contact with her. After an eternity of brushing against strangers’ knees and catching himself on polished wood he is standing in the aisle, purple carpet beneath his feet clashing sorely with the maroon of his suit, and she’s turning her body, too, standing and staring at him. His knees and ankles wobble beneath his lanky frame as he takes a step forward, and he’s hoping no one notices or they’ll definitely be calling him pissed and throwing him out. His hands dig into his pockets where no one can see them and they’re clenching into tight fists, nails digging into his palms as he feels the blood rush from his fingers. He’s walking forward more steadily, because each time his shoes carry him foreword he can see her more clearly, all five feet, five inches of his best mate, the most perfect woman he’s ever met.

When he can see the look in her eyes his shoes scuff to a halt, and he’s maybe ten meters from them and he still hasn’t glanced to her fiancé or the minister. They don’t matter. Her eyes matter: the soft brown eyes swirled with yellows and greens that are hurting and angry as they bore into his, and he almost turns to run. But he looks deeper because he can, because he knows her and he’s stared into those eyes a thousand times, and he discovers an innocent curiosity and a glint of hope that urge him to take the leap, to say something.

He hadn’t planned this. Not when she’d first informed him of her engagement, not when he drank himself to sleep the last three weeks, not as he’d gotten dressed this morning and drove to the venue in his posh transportation. For months he’d been all misery and regret and he’d never admitted why, because she was his best mate and he’d convinced himself he was happy, even elated for her. That he didn’t envy the lucky bastard he’d bet himself would be gone before she starting filming the second series of her new show.

All of it was bollocks. He’s here now about to lose his soul mate when never even believed in that sort of rubbish before Billie, and he admits it to himself silently. Deep down he always thought he’d have his chance, that one day down the road the time would be right, they’d both be unattached and he could finally show her all that they could be. Billie isn’t just an unfortunate missed opportunity he can let slip through his fingers without his heart aching forever, wondering what could have been and living with the pain of cowardice, so he steels his resolve to confess.

“Bill,” he starts out strong but pauses, and she nods almost imperceptibly to urge him on. His hands emerge from his pockets because he’d read somewhere open hands tell someone you’re being honest and you’re vulnerable and he’s never been a better example of either. “You’re my best mate.” His lips quiver with anxiety he smiles lightly to her, because he’ll give anything to see her smiling back at him. A breathy chuckle precedes her response, nerves affecting her, too, and they only compound his own.

“You’re mine, too,” and her lips curve upward just slightly, encouraging him. “But what the hell are you doing, Dave?” Her voice is quiet enough that guests in the back of the room can’t hear her, and for a moment the pews and the altar and the groom-to-be disappear as her expression only contains concern for him and his heart swells that she isn’t angry anymore, and he needs to tell her. His heart is about to fail from the sheer speed of its pumping and his teeth are nearly chattering with how much he’s shaking but he feigns courage because he knows he can’t live with this regret.

“I love you.” His voice cuts through the silence and tension thick in the air, and there are gasps and hushed whispers and condescension and excitement to his sides and behind him and he doesn’t care. They don’t matter. His heart stops and he’s already straining to fight back tears and stop from fleeing the cavernous room back up the thin carpet where he’d came because she isn’t responding. Her eyes turn away from him, looking to the ground and the audience and the man in black beside her but he can’t follow her gaze. The ice is closing around his heart as his hands are in his pockets again, balling into fists too hard and his arms are shuddering from the force. She meets his eyes again and her lip is quivering this time.

“Dave,” she says somberly, and her hand is over her heart and he knows what follows is going to hurt so he doesn’t give her a chance to say it.

“More than I thought I _could_ love another person. We’re brilliant together, you and me,” he manages a brief smile only thinking of their time filming series two and the press madness surrounding it. “You shouldn’t be marrying him,” he gestured with a nod and looked to the furious but silent bloke at the altar for the first time before quickly retuning his gaze to Billie. “You should be with me.” He’s handing over his heart to do with what she will and he’s naked and exposed in front of the church, and he worries he’s about to throw up his breakfast when she shakes her head, ever so lightly. His own weight becomes too much for him; his knees buckle at nothing but gravity as the pain surges through his gut but still he waits for her to speak.

“Dave, I can’t – ” she cuts herself off with a hand over her mouth and he nods, politely, with a reluctant smile that the everyone will believe, but she won’t. She can’t, because she knows him, too, as well as he knows her. And he’s turning on his heels and wiping his thumb and index finger furiously over his eyes as he strides towards his escape. Still the center of attention as he shuffles quickly up the aisle, he effectively ignores everyone in the crowd, be it for leering or pitying. He staves off the floodgate of emotions that’s about to burst for just a few minutes longer, because every form of media imaginable is queued outside the building, waiting for its occupants to emerge.

She calls his name from a distance behind him but he doesn’t turn. Whatever consolation she meant to offer wasn’t going to help him.

Sunlight and camera flashes greet him as he barges through the double doors, and he waves and smiles at each member of a news station in turn as he makes his way as quickly as possible to his waiting car without breaking stride but he’s considering the consequences of running to his driver. He makes it through the crowd, though, and he’s proud of himself because he’s alone, no one’s followed him out. He’s trudging through the stragglers without breaking down or throwing a tantrum at their invasion of his privacy, dodging questions about why he’s leaving prematurely and why he’s wearing red velvet and whether he’s alright.

With a quick knock on the passenger door his driver unlocks the car and he scrambles into the backseat, not bothering to lock it behind him. Under cover of darkened windows and the closed barrier between him and the driver he buries his face in his hands, allowing the reality of what’s happened to sink in.

He lost her. Billie makes him happy, makes him laugh like no one else can, and there isn’t another hand on the planet that fits so well in his, no arms he’d rather have wrapped around him, no lips he’d rather kiss whether or not it was in front of a dozen cameras. She’s the most beautiful woman he can possible imagine and he’s been infatuated with her since he first watched the revived series and in love with her since they day they met at Julie Gardner’s house, and he’s lost her. Billie has always been a light in the darkness, and as he accepts the fact that he’ll live out his days without her the darkness is already overwhelming his heart.

But worst of all, this is all a consequence of poor, poor timing. The universe hated him and cruelly it dangled her in front of him as his perfect match but has never brought them together in the way he’s always wanted. She was married when they met and he’d courted someone else though he pined after his unavailable costar, and then she was divorced and he didn’t have time to break it off with whatshername before Billie’d found another, too. Curses are on his lips at this stupid universe, the one where they aren’t allowed to be together when he’s convinced they are in all the rest, and in all those today’s the day _he’s_ the one lucky enough to marry her.

His hands are wet when the driver cracks the barricade to inquire if he’d like to leave. He wipes at his cheeks and sniffles back further tears until he manages to croak out an affirmative and asks him to keep the wall between them shut. It was impolite and he knows it but he’s in too much of a state to feel remorse.

His back straightens as he looks out the far window, away from the bleak stone of the church and towards the green countryside to find some solace from the merciless waves of anguish and regret crashing over him. But the view only reminds him of when they were in Scotland together, taking what might as well have been engagement photos by a forced hand. He’d played up a faux aversion to the scenario and the photographs but the truth was he enjoyed himself far too much, and he still has copies of those pictures in his flat. As his head turns to rest against the back of his seat and closes his eyes, his chest feels hollowed out; the slow, weak beating of his heart doesn’t register with his senses as it’s a dramatic change from only minutes before when it was racing with possibility.

He’s about to shout at the man behind the wheel when he still hasn’t started the engine when the car door across from him opens.

His eyelids flutter open as his head jerks to see what member of the camera-wielding spies dared to open his car when his heart swells to fill his empty, aching chest, because it’s not a pap but Billie that’s climbing into the seat next to him, stuffing bits of her dress in next to her before she slams the door in haste and shouts to the front seat through the barrier to ‘step on it.’

“Bill!” he cries out, confusion and elation warring in his mind. “What’re you doing!?” He’s palming at his eyes and cheeks to ensure no moisture remains to damn him and clearing his throat to dispel the croakiness from his voice and he just hopes his eyes aren’t red.

“David. Did you mean it?” He gapes at her, wide-eyed, eyebrows pulling together like he can’t believe she’s asking and he can’t articulate to save his life.

“Was everything you said true?” she repeats her question and he’s still in shock that she’s left the wedding without a husband on her arm and she has to smack his arm before he answers.

“Yes, of course I did! You think I’d lie at a time like that?” he half-shouts through the torrent of emotions racking his brain as he vaguely perceives the car starting to move at last.

The second the last word leaves his mouth she’s clambering over the seat, and before his brain can register anything her hands are on his face and his heart stops again when her lips touch his, and he’s motionless against her in disbelief. She tugs on his bottom lip just the way she’d learned he liked when they ‘practiced’ the New Earth snog one too many times and he’s kissing her back, tender and deep. Her hands slide into his hair, fingertips massaging his scalp and he can’t help but moan as he tastes her with his tongue, a taste he’d missed for so long. His hands grip her waist and he pulls her onto his lap so his arms can wrap around her and he’s promising himself he’ll never let her go again when she stops him with a firm hand on his shoulder, pulling herself back.

“Sorry, is that too much?” he asks nervously, apprehension splayed across his face.

“No,” she laughs lightly, brushing a hand across his cheek as she settles as comfortably into his lap as possible with the constraints of the backseat and the dress. Her smile is turning his insides to mush as she looks him deeply in the eyes, and with another chaste kiss she whispers heaven against his lips.

“I love you too, Dave.” 


End file.
